Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains like it had something to say.
Sjha stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection — hair tied up, paint stains on her fingers.
Her face looked the same, but something inside her had shifted.
He was back.
The thought still didn't feel real.
She touched her necklace unconsciously — the small shell Arin had once picked from the beach.
For months, it had been just a memory.
Now, it was a sign.
---
At Lightspace, the day began quietly.
Children arrived with their chatter and colors.
But her eyes kept flicking toward the door — waiting, hoping.
By afternoon, when the door finally creaked open, she almost dropped her brush.
"Permission to enter?" Arin said, smiling a little too carefully.
"You already did," she said, trying to sound calm.
The children noticed him, whispering, giggling.
One of them asked loudly, "Miss, is that your friend?"
Arin laughed. "Depends who you ask."
Sjha shook her head, amused. "You're early. Tea's not even ready."
"I can wait," he said. "I've had practice."
---
Later, when the kids left, they sat together on the floor, sipping tea.
Rain tapped softly on the windows — the world's way of listening in.
"So," she said finally. "How's the sea?"
"Still louder than me," he replied.
They both laughed quietly.
Then silence — not heavy this time, just… gentle.
She asked, "Why didn't you come sooner?"
"I didn't know how to," he said. "I thought you'd moved on."
"I did," she said. "But some parts refuse to leave."
He looked at her. "Which parts?"
"The ones that remember how you take your tea."
---
He smiled — the kind of smile that hides both regret and relief.
"I saw your exhibition," he said. "It felt like sunlight after winter."
She lowered her gaze. "You taught me to look for light."
They fell quiet again, but it wasn't awkward.
Sometimes silence is the only language that fits two people learning how to begin again.
---
As days passed, Arin started visiting the studio often — helping the kids mix colors, fixing broken frames, sitting quietly in the corner sketching.
The students adored him.
Sjha pretended not to notice how the room felt different when he was there.
He didn't talk much about his time away, but sometimes, in his sketches, she saw pieces of it — cliffs, waves, the small white house.
One afternoon, she asked, "Did you paint while you were gone?"
He nodded. "I painted what I missed. You."
She froze, unsure what to say.
He didn't look up, just kept sketching. "It was easier than admitting it out loud."
---
That night, she sat by her balcony, reading his old letters again.
They felt different now — not as distant, not as sad.
She realized something — they'd both changed in the same direction, even apart.
---
A week later, Meera found them sitting outside the studio sharing coffee.
"Finally," Meera teased. "Two ghosts back among the living."
Sjha rolled her eyes. "We were never gone."
Arin grinned. "Just misplaced."
Meera smirked. "Then don't lose each other again."
---
But even in peace, distance hides in small things.
Arin had moments when he'd drift away mid-conversation, eyes distant.
When Sjha asked, he'd just say, "Some things take time to quiet."
She understood — maybe because her own heart still carried echoes too.
---
One evening, he brought her a sketchbook.
"Here," he said. "I thought we could fill it together."
She flipped through the blank pages. "Together?"
He nodded. "You draw, I'll write. One page each."
She smiled. "Like letters, but alive."
That became their ritual.
Every evening after class, they'd sit near the window — she'd paint something simple, he'd write a few lines beside it.
A broken teacup.
A reminder that even cracks hold warmth.
Two umbrellas.
Sometimes shelter means standing in the same rain.
A blurred sunset.
Endings are only colors changing shape.
---
Days melted into weeks.
The studio grew brighter, their silences softer.
It wasn't love in the loud, desperate way — it was something quieter, rooted, real.
But sometimes, as she watched him pack up to leave at night, her heart whispered, Don't go yet.
And his glance back seemed to say, I won't.
---
Still, both knew the truth — they were rebuilding something fragile, and even light casts shadows.
For now, they didn't rush.
They just filled one page after another, learning that closeness isn't about words — it's about how two lives quietly start fitting again.
---
That night, as they finished another sketch, she asked softly,
"Arin, do you ever think about what we were?"
He looked at her — eyes calm, steady.
"No," he said. "I think about what we still can be."
Outside, rain began again — patient, endless.
And this time, neither of them looked away.
-----------------------------------------